


Wishing for Something You Had Never Missed

by semisweet



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: picfor1000, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-19
Updated: 2009-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semisweet/pseuds/semisweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorne centric. A reflection on what it's like to work in another galaxy, and the realization that it's not so different. Cameos by Teyla and Jennifer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishing for Something You Had Never Missed

  


_[Picture](http://www.flickr.com/photos/dbowie78/229364321/) by Guðskraftur on Flick. Reproduced under Creative Common License._

* * *

It was something Lorne never would have imagined when he joined the military. Something he did not learn in training but on the field. Never had any of his superiors hinted at its importance, or referred to its annoyance even vaguely, and later he would know why. It would put off more than a few new recruits whose main motivations comprised the defense, the respect and the prestige of the uniform.

Contrary to his expectation, his new position at Stargate Command did not cut short that rather unfortunate part of the job, though he admitted that the variety of worlds he visited and exotic landscapes he could admire made his situation a little more pleasant than had he been based on Earth. He supposed every career had at least a concealed drawback. Annoying as his was, he loved his job and never would have change it for the world or – in his case, worlds. Besides, what occupation could surpass knowing the existence of extra-terrestrial life and dealing with civilizations that flourished over thousands of centuries? Of course, there were the bad guys, all sorts of malicious creatures. How could it be otherwise? Even Earth had its portion of evil.

When the air force sent him to another galaxy, it seemed even more sensational. To his disappointment, Pegasus and the Milky Way were quite alike. The air smelled the same. The food tasted the same. The girls looked the same, and the catch remained the same.

The waiting.

Granted, this new assignment had given Lorne his fair share of surprises since he had arrived.

Between fixing occasional physicists' mistakes – which resulted in regrettable releases of diseases, specters or viruses on their base, causing them more trouble than harm – fighting people whose obstinate leaders refused their help, or running away from life-sucking, long-haired, ugly aliens that even the weirdest weirdo couldn't think of writing in a horror movie back on Earth, he liked to apply the word intense (or insane) to his few first weeks on Atlantis.

However, something was different. He noticed it right away, and wondered if the others had perceived it, too.

The colors.

They were different, more vivid, more magnetizing.

His mother, an art teacher by trade, taught him how to develop a keen sense for beauty as well as the basics in sketch techniques. He had not touched a canvas, picked up brushes, tubes of paint or a palette in years. There might have been more to that sudden regain of interest in painting than simply remembering the Pegasus panoramas and perfecting his creative skills, and he would rather avoid delving into the idea that this was a way to remain close to his mother light years and light years away.

His acute hearing allowed him to remain on the alert and let his vision focus on what surrounded him: nature, bushes and trees, rivers and oceans, clouds and moons, stars in space, or landscapes of man's creation, picturesque villages, buildings of all shapes and functions, ships and many other fascinating devices waiting for names.

First, he tried to memorize the whole picture. When he had imprinted the setting in his mind's eye, he could get down to remember the details, strange shapes and curious colors. Granted, a few shots with a digital camera would suffice, but it felt like cheating, even though the result would be clearer, the most important ingredient would be missing – the artist's vision.

Sometimes, he wondered if his teammates noticed. Each man used a different subterfuge to kill time. Some hummed or whistled, others, masters in the art of make believe, sat, weapons lowered, allowing themselves to doze off, as others paced around the gate, not the worst plan, standing still being the real danger. Lorne did not mind as long as their sixth sense to smell danger ahead remained a hundred percent operational.

Dealing with mass murder on a regular basis could result in the best-trained soldier losing it. Nightmares, paranoia, insomnia - a few of Atlantis's side aspects. He would go to the mind doctor, not to say shrink or psychiatrist, but he was not so much of a talker. His parents called him the silent one. An advocate of listening first, he found his outlet in his art, as Ronon found his in combat, or Sheppard in …golf! To each his own.

It had been one of those days. Three days in a row on the same planet, alternating shifts with other teams, a lovely sky he could not take his eyes off, and then terror and screams and death.

After a quick sojourn in the infirmary, and Doctor Keller's pills prescription to help him find sleep, the Doctor and Teyla escorted him to his quarters, despite his word that he would be careful, and the proof that he could move on crutches.

They noticed his most recent work in the corner of the room.

"This is lovely, Major", Teyla said.

"Was lovely, I guess."

"Have you named it?" Jennifer asked.

"I'm not quite the wordsmith."

"How about something with the color purple?" Teyla suggested.

"Serenity," whispered Jennifer.

Lorne and Teyla both looked at the doctor, who stared at the painting as though waiting for it to murmur its name to her ear. "It's just what I feel when I look at it," she explained.

After they left, his eyes wandered off to the canvas. He was glad to be able to remember the sky's purple serenity instead of the ground's blood red insanity.

He had an escape.

To cope, he painted. He was not so good at describing the shades of colors, as he was at recreating them with paint. He was not so good at expressing his thoughts on what he witnessed, as at transforming them into images.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Judging by what surrounded him, he was in the middle of his third novel.

After such days, he fervently wished for more waiting days.

On waiting days, everyone came back.

  


_The End_   


  



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